Abyss Gazes Back
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: The Moon told him he was Jack Frost, and made him a Guardian. Pitch Black told him he was a monster, and made him one. The boy however, knew exactly who he was, and which one he wanted to be. One-shot.


Jack touches the tree, and frost spirals out beneath his fingertips. He taps his staff on the lake, and the ice hardens, frost ferns spreading like ripples from the point of contact. Jack laughs and his breath is the cool wind coming to sweep him away, to carry him into the sky in dizzying circles.

Jack is Jack Frost, because the Moon told him so, and even thought the people don't see him, can't hear his voice, even though he is but a ghost to be walked through, he is content because he has a name, a voice, an identity. He exists because he knows he does, even though no human eyes can see him.

No human eyes; but the tall, dark man that watches him sometimes from the edge of the lake is not human. The man stares, taking in Jack's joyful cavorting, and says nothing. For many cycles of the moon he is a silent observer, one whom Jack does not acknowledge, because the first time he tried the man melted into shadow and disappeared. The man must be shy, Jack decides, or else he'd say hello, so Jack leaves him be and lets him watch in peace.

Until one day, the man approaches, his footsteps making no sound on the crisp cold surface of Jack's frozen lake. Jack looks up and smiles at the man and the answering smile's as sharp and as wicked as the blade of a knife in the dark.

The man never asks Jack's name, and Jack never gets a chance to tell him. After that, he's usually too busy screaming to speak much, anyways.

*m*o*n*s*t*e*r*

The place the man keeps Jack is dark, the darkest blackest place that Jack has ever been. There is no Moon here to watch over him, no stars to shine little pinpricks of light down onto him, just the endless expanse of black nothingness on all sides, the weight of it as heavy as mountains. That and the pain are all Jack knows.

And by now, Jack knows pain.

Pain is the sharpest slices of knives, pain is the dull thump of blows against his body, pain is the searing heat of fire, and somehow even the harsh bite of winter hurts, although it shouldn't, but the rules in this place are different. Despite all the pain he feels however, never once is a knife brought to his body, never once is Jack struck, or burnt, or frozen. The pain he feels stems from the darkness itself creeping in, slithering between his lips and into the bloody wounds were he tried to escape, clawing his fingertips to mulch. It slips into his ears with its sibilant hissing, and crawls up his tear ducts and all the crying the world can't stop it. Sometimes, the pain fades, dulls, and merely lies in wait to begin the assault again. Other times the pain rages as Jack's body fights back. Sometimes, the dark man stands over Jack, watching as silently as he always did. Sometimes he yells and taunts, mocking Jack's weakness while exulting how strong Jack will be once he gives in and allows the darkness to shape him and remake him.

Except, he never calls Jack by name, because he doesn't know it, Jack never told him. Jack never would, because Jack's name is all he has left, the only thing that belongs to him in the place where the lake and the trees and the sky have all been stolen. Jack cradles his name, the only thing the Moon ever told him, keeps it safe in the chest near the cold little fire that still burns. The cold fire is his too, at the very centre of him; it is soft and not warm but comforting. It is this cold fire that fights back, that freezes the darkness in Jack's veins and drives it out; it is this power that keeps Jack from falling completely and this power that leaves the dark man frustrated. It splutters sometime, like it's fading, but Jack always nurtures it back to full strength, pushing aside the pain and fear and horror to do so, because it was the only thing Jack had left to save.

*m*o*n*s*t*e*r*

The dark man is called Pitch Black, and Jack thinks he must be the devil himself.

*m*o*n*s*t*e*r*

The dark man speaks to him now, the more ground Jack slowly loses in the never-ending battle. Jack's clothes had split and torn away a long time ago, and the man had cackles with glee as he disposed of them. Jack's body had swollen, distended with the effort of contain the darkness that continually spilled into him. Jack had scratched and clawed at his face until he wasn't sure he even had a face anymore, his panicked efforts to keep the darkness out only opening more wounds, more gaps for which the darkness to slither in. At some point, his hands had disappeared, or mutated until they weren't exactly hands anymore, and now he had dozens of them, heavy flailing limbs that could smash and rend and tear but none that could stop the unrelenting flow of black evil from continuing to seep though him. Pitch Black seemed so pleased every time he saw him, praising Jack for this growth and cooing over his strength, assuring him that someday he would be big and strong, someday he would be a weapon, a powerful one, the very thing that would crush the Guardians and make them pay.

Jack does not know who the Guardians are, except the Pitch Black hates them. For that reason alone, he loves them fiercely, and feeds that love and trust and hope to the little flickering flame within, praying it is enough to keep it burning, to stop it from going out.

*m*o*n*s*t*e*r*

Eventually the pain changes. It is always agony, but Jack grows accustomed to it, now it only hurts worse when me moves, when he attempts to engage his new body, when he acknowledges his new body at all. Instead, Jack huddles inside himself, in the tiny place under his skin where the flame still burns and nothing can touch him. Here he tells himself over and over again I am Jack Frost, the Moon told me so. I am a boy with pale hands and white hair and blue eyes.

I am not a monster.

I am not a monster

I am not a monster.

Jack does not know if it works, but it helps, so he does not stop.

*m*o*n*s*t*e*r*

Jack slumps in the middle of a street, and marvels distantly at how the world has changed. How long has it been, since he was taken into shadow? The group before his is weak, bedraggled in appearance, but brimming with fight and bravery. He recognizes them as the Guardians that Pitch Black had told him about, and despairs because the four of them were the greatest, yet they have all fallen so low.

Jack knows they have fallen; knows because Pitch Black told him, because he is Pitch Black's greatest creation and the one thing that is meant to be their final downfall.

Jack does not want to fight. He wants to speak, to tell the Guardians what Pitch Black has done to him, tell them that he was made a monster, and that he hurts and is afraid, but Jack is unsure whether he evens has a mouth to speak with anymore, it has been so long. The looks on the faces of the Guardians and the children they are protecting are not comforting at all either, they are wide eyed and horrified, and Jack knows then that whatever he has become, he must be gruesome and terrifying indeed. It makes Jack wants to cry, and his body finds a way to wail, high and said and mournful, and even Jack's voice is not his own anymore. The Guardians flinch, and Pitch Black laughs, and the children begin to weep, but inside him, deep down in the place the Jack fought to shelter, fought to protect, the little flame blazes to life, and Jack knows what he must do.

Pitch Black wants him to fight, and although it will hurt, although every movement is torture, Jack will fight. He'll give the dark man the fight of his life.

Monsters should fight monsters, after all.

*m*o*n*s*t*e*r*

Jack watches Pitch Black sink below the surface, the broken ice healing over quickly, encouraged by Jack's ragged exhalations, which somehow despite everything still carry a winter chill. The man is downed, defeated and banished to the bottom of the lake to stew in his anger and failure. He will return again Jack knows, because things that are truly evil never die, only sleep, but for now, they are safe. The cycle has come full circle, beginning with Jack rising from the ice only to fall into the darkness, and ending with Pitch Black falling to darkness, while Jack will rise from the ice. But perhaps it is not to be, for while Jack tries to rise, to push himself up, he is exhausted and in utter paralyzing agony now that the determination and adrenaline have deserted him. The best he manages is a weak shuffling of his many varied limbs, the wet dragging noises of his flesh against the ice disgusting him to his very core. He knows he is not the only one either, for although he was followed by both Guardians and children, they are all still keeping a healthy distance, content to merely watch and wait. Jack shuffles a bit again, moans louder. He wants to tell them everything, but does not know how, does not even think he has the strength left for words. Jack fears this is the end, and finds himself terrified at the notion, even if it would mean relief from his own hideous nature and the nonstop torment he has endured.

The small hand against his foremost left-hand shoulder startles him, and despite the gentleness of the touch sends a shock of pain straight up his nerves, but Jack does not make a sound, unwilling to frighten the child that has approached him. The boy is young, brown haired and brown eyed, and he reminds Jack of someone, the memory rustling deep within as if from a dream, but Jack could not say for certain who. The boy looks worried, face honest and open, and that look alone could feed Jack for decades; never before in Jack's life had another looked at him with such tenderness, and Jack silently blesses the compassion of a child for a hopeless monster like him. The look sends the guttering flame within an extra spark, the little light giving Jack just enough energy to speak. His voice is raspy and guttural, with a pronounced hiss, but speak he does, and the assembly listens.

'I was not always a monster,' Jack tells them. 'I was a boy once, and I rode the wind and spread ice and snow with a touch, and I laughed with the children and this lake was my home. The Moon said I was Jack Frost, but Pitch Black said I was a monster, and then made me so. I know what I am though, and I never forgot.'

'I am Jack Frost, and I am no monster.'

Jack can hear the gasps of the Guardians in the background, the group having closed in on him as he spoke. He can feel other small hands on him now, and larger hands, hands with a hint of magic in their touch that he knows belong to his spirit brethren. Every touch aches against his skin, but he drinks it in, the physical comfort that has been denied to him so long. Jack relaxes, feels himself slipping away, and knows it is time. The flame within dims, flickers, prepares to go out.

'You are Jack Frost, and I believe.' The young boy's voice is so soft, so far away that Jack barely hears him, but somehow he does. He does, and the jolt though Jack's body feels like an electric shock, starting from the place where the child's small hand touches him. The chant is quickly taken up by the rest, perhaps a most fitting funeral rite, but suddenly Jack believes for the first moment since Pitch Black went under, that this may not be a funeral after all. Every touch, every affirmation fills him with strength, power, and the midwinter chill that used to be as dear to him as oxygen. The rush increases, until the voices fade, and Jack con only just hear them all cry out in surprise as they withdraw, and what was once gentle moonlight is no pulsing, hot and blinding, and Jack wants to scream but he has no throat, and he's not sure it's even pain that he feels anyways, it's more like being unmade, like being born in reverse, like coming to life in a supernova.

Jacks comes to awareness slumped on his knees on the ice. He is naked, but not cold, because he is winter and never meant to be cold. He hears a male voices cursing hastily in a language he does not recognize, before an overlarge heavy red coat is draped over him to preserve his modesty. Not that Jack cares much for modesty anymore, not when everyone present had seen him as he had been before, but Jack is willing to accept the gift to avoid offending his observers. One pale, human hand rubs a fine layer of snow off the ice, and Jack is able to use the crude mirror to confirm what he once thought he would never see again.

White hair, blue eyes, and a boy who is very much a boy and not a monster stares back at him.

The younger boy crows with joy, and throws himself into Jack's arms like Jack had not moments ago been a creature from the deepest of nightmares, and Jack cannot do anything but laugh and hold him back. Jack's face is wet with cold, icy tears, but he cares not, because he is a real boy again, and the children and Guardians are all smiling and laughing with him. Jack laughs and cries and laughs and cries some more, and at some point introductions are made and the children are taken safely home, and the rest of the Guardians explain to him that he had been chosen, but that no one had known his face or where to find him. Jack knows now that they will listen, that his story can be told, that they will help him find his staff if he helps free the little fairies that Pitch as apparently stolen. He can make these deals now, because he has friends, and they have promised to lend him aid and to stand by him and to care for him, and Jack knows he will have no trouble caring in return.

Monsters know nothing of love, but Jack is a boy, and when he loves, he loves often and always very well.

*m*o*n*s*t*e*r*

Whoever battles with monsters had better see that it does not turn him into a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

- Friedrich Nietzsche


End file.
